07-11-2025, 09:31 PM
There was a time when community service lasted 13 months. 1997 was one of them. The following story takes place during this time. Or more precisely, in a tiny period within this extended year of community service.
I was in the internal medicine ward of a church hospital, which isn't relevant to the story, but should at least be mentioned. Incidentally, no one should think that in a church institution of this kind, there are three crucifixes in every hospital room and the priest performs the operations. Doctors, patients, nurses, and other members of the staff are normal people "like you and me," only the administration is controlled by the institution, which believes in higher powers.
During my first ten weeks on the ward, I had plenty of time to get a taste of all the day-to-day processes on such a ward, and in some cases, the word "taste" was taken quite literally. The range of tasks ranged from caring for patients to managing a ward kitchen to in-house patient transport. Hey, actually, a whole book could be written about that.
So, after completing the first two and a half months, my induction course was on the agenda. A business trip of the utterly pointless category: In the time I'd already completed it, I'd truly become more than familiar with everything important, but the legal requirements must be met.
The central point of contact for civilian service members at the beginning of their careers (well, beginning...) was the civilian service school in Schlöhne, Brandenburg. Since a five-story hospital with an adjacent nursing home has more than one alternative service member, I tried to gather information about this trip from colleagues who had already completed this adventure.
It was interesting that although my colleagues in my community service year had started their service a month later, they had already completed their introductory course. Carsten, whom I had known for a long time from my school days and who worked in the retirement home attached to the building, told me that the community service school would be about two kilometers from the town of Schlöhne itself. Schlöhne itself, he warned me, could be described with much goodwill as a quiet village. "The phrase 'dead ass' has its origins there," Carsten explained after his return to civilization. He had the pleasure of being delegated to this course just a week before me. The community service school itself – in the middle of the forest, an isolated complex of buildings. But you would still have fun. If you could improvise... So much for Carsten's report. Well then – off to the village – fun in the forest.
To put it in perspective: In 1997, walking around with a cell phone in your pocket was anything but commonplace, and since I was temporarily without a driver's license at the time, despite being 20 years old, for certain reasons (anyone who has ever earned their living driving a pizza delivery service knows what I mean!), my mobility on site would be extremely limited.
After all, around 200 volunteers, all male, housed in a building complex for five days—there would be some nice sights to see, as well as perhaps an opportunity or two. If the well-known ten percent rule applied, there would be about 19 other people who wouldn't mind not seeing any women for a week. An opportunity for me to possibly find the happiness of my life. However, on a scale of zero to 100, my hopes were in the low single digits.
On Monday morning, right on time for my scheduled departure, I stood at my hometown's main train station, waiting to see if any other travelers from my hometown looked like they were going to have to spend a week on an isolated piece of land in the countryside. No.
After a 45-minute journey, the local train stopped in Würmersfelde. I immediately suspected one of the boarding passengers was headed to the same destination as me. He sat down directly on the opposite seat. After the train left the station, he immediately asked me, "Are you going to Schlöhne too?" I nodded, and instantly the spell was broken. My new acquaintance immediately began to talk like a waterfall. Among other things, I learned where he was doing his community service, where, when, and how he had graduated from high school, and why his girlfriend had dumped him. Given his captivating narrative style, I could easily figure out the reason: the woman would have had to be deaf to put up with him any longer. I didn't tell him that I was 100 percent uninterested in this fact—besides, I had no opportunity to.
After I was well informed about him, I was forced to give out some brief information about myself, while keeping one or two facts to myself.
We had to change trains in Fellendorf, but had a layover of almost an hour. The weather was perfect: gray on gray, with a light westerly wind spraying fine raindrops in our faces. Moreover, the station strongly aroused the suspicion of having been spared various political upheavals. After scouting out where our connecting train would depart, we went in search of a kiosk. Sure enough, we found a place to quench our thirst for coffee.
My friend from Würmersfeld was determined to pick up some newspapers. In the back foyer of the establishment, he discovered a magazine with advertising on a table and immediately began leafing through it vigorously, much to the annoyance of the kiosk owner. "Would you mind paying for the newspaper before you read it?" the lady asked gruffly. "But it was lying on the table back there!" my thrifty companion tried to justify himself. "You have absolutely no business being there!" the lady explained. Gritting his teeth, he paid for the paper so he'd have something to read for the rest of the train journey. I didn't grit my teeth; perhaps that would give me some peace and quiet.
We went to a waiting room, the interior and exterior of which made an imposing impression. From the outside, it looked as if King Barbarossa had sought refuge there. The interior walls resembled both a dating site and a political discussion platform; a kind of fixed internet café, only without service and online access. Football fans from half of Germany had immortalized themselves here, letting us know who would be promoted or relegated. Political statements for almost every major party, naturally including unprintable notes for political opponents. Passengers passing through had noted down details of their travel itineraries. Bavarians, Prussians, Saarlanders—half the nation seemed to know this waiting room at Fellendorf train station.
After thoroughly studying all the notes, it was time to change platforms. While we waited for the regional express to Crossberg, we made assumptions about our fellow passengers. We came to the conclusion that some of those we observed might well have Schlöhne as their destination. Sure enough, a young man, whom we suspected of being a leather fetishist based on his clothing on the platform, approached us on the train: "So, where are we going?"
Now that our Schlöhne travel committee had grown to three members, a lively conversation ensued. Our third member was named Michael, a motorcycle enthusiast without a driver's license (hence the leather upholstery) who worked as an assistant caretaker at a youth hostel. In Crossberg, where we also had a short stay, a fourth member joined us. He had curly hair and quickly revealed himself to be a real cheerleader. He introduced himself as Torsten.
Then a small argument arose about how to make the most of the stay. Leather-Micha (that's the name Torsten gave him) had an urgent need to browse the press shop for relevant literature (on motorcycles). Rene from Würmersfelde also wanted to buy a daily newspaper, while Torsten and I desperately wanted a cup of coffee. So, an agreement was reached: we four volunteers would temporarily split into interest-based pairs.
Shortly before departure, a small problem arose: Despite intensive search efforts, we were unable to find the designated platform for the train to Schlöhne. A railway employee directed us to the eastern end, from there a shunter directed us west. After passing through two tunnels, crossing three overpasses, and wandering through the main station hall at least three times, we accidentally discovered a map that showed us the right way. Lo and behold, we had already trudged past the superbly hidden entrance to the platform three times.
On the train itself, it was now an open secret who would be getting off in Schlöhne. A minibus was waiting for us there, carrying a total of 15 volunteers.
I studied the course tourists present and came to the conclusion that it would be a boring week if the other 175... but wait and see.
We passed the village, and after about two kilometers, the bus turned into a fenced-in area—our destination had been reached. Some expressed the not entirely serious suspicion that we had been kidnapped by the Bundeswehr. Indeed, the Civil Service School's resemblance to a barracks was undeniable...
We unloaded our luggage and entered the main building of the complex. Here, too, I had the impression that the past few years had passed by without a trace, similar to the Fellendorf train station. Then it was time to allocate the rooms. The lady in charge explained: "There are smoking and non-smoking rooms." Since Rene was a non-smoker, Torsten had already found someone with similar hobbies, and I didn't know anyone else, I shared a room with Leather-Micha and mentally prepared myself to become a motorcycle expert in the coming days.
After receiving our keys from the experienced room assignor, we went to our shared quarters. To do so, we had to cross a sort of roll call square, which was currently being used as a parking area by civilian volunteers. This square was surrounded by three different buildings, arranged in a clearly arranged position and radiating architecturally valuable construction—at least, that must have been the case in the past. One of the buildings, which had actually made the best impression, was closed for construction work.
After making our beds, we returned to the main building, where we were told: "Here to the main hall, gentlemen!" There, the lady of the house, the director of the facility, began bombarding us with various welcoming and instructive phrases. First, the front rows of seats, which had remained empty for some unknown reason, were occupied. The program was then presented in detail, constantly interrupted by humorous interjections from the conscientious objectors. At some point, after several minutes, Lady Chef finally got to the crux of the matter: the division into four different seminar groups. I had already completed my crux of the matter and had spotted a total of three people who, at first glance, were worth a closer look. And two of them were sitting right next to each other, exchanging rather unmistakable glances upon closer inspection. Hidden, but not entirely invisible, amorous glances that showed me I wasn't alone here. Or was I?
Each of the four future group leaders was given the opportunity to briefly explain what they would be dealing with. An older lady, whom I suspected had already been working in education for several years, especially in other political systems, offered to explore the topic of schools in the GDR. Yes, she seemed predestined for it. Trainee number two had an unavoidable topic in store: right-wing extremism in Germany. Even better was the topic the third lady had in store: addressing current political problems. Then the only man appeared on stage. His way of presenting the topic stood out somewhat from the others. Jurisprudence in Germany, that was the title of his course. It didn't sound interesting either, but it's the tone that counts. In any case, we quickly agreed that none of this had anything to do with our community service positions. (Or did it? How would I be punished if I gave someone the wrong pill? Not at all; a community service worker isn't allowed to hand out medication.)
After a brief discussion, the entire group I had traveled with decided on the young man, who seemed relaxed and fresh. But much more importantly, we had to satisfy our initial hunger. Since the actual canteen was located in the building, which was closed at the time due to construction work, we were allowed to eat in the in-house pub. Over the course of the course, we often wondered how this public place could have existed without conscientious objection. The clientele consisted of 98 percent civilian volunteers. The closely spaced tables created an almost "romantic" atmosphere, which, given the male ratio of 100, was naturally disliked by the majority. Extreme care had to be taken not to accidentally grab a noodle from your neighbor's plate.
After dinner, we gathered in the seminar room, where they were initially looking for four volunteers to take a different course: There was an acute shortage of space. Our young seminar leader offered to draw lots, but four volunteers volunteered to switch. I breathed a sigh of relief: Chance had ensured that both the supposed couple and candidate number three were stuck in my course. Now we could get started.
Falko, our boss for the next five days, first explained how he envisioned the itinerary. This plan was noted and immediately accepted by everyone. After a brief introduction to the topic, the first day was already over, or almost over. After dinner, another general meeting was scheduled to inform us about the possibilities for leisure activities, which in turn discouraged us from doing so... The motorized Schlöhne tourists among us could be recommended the discos or ice hockey rinks in the nearby towns. For the others, only the in-house options remained. For example, three televisions invited us to a cozy get-together. There were also pool tables, foosball tables, and specialized rooms for pottery (?!) and bands. Indeed, a group was found that decided to produce music by the end of their stay, including Rene and Torsten. Incidentally, no one heard anything about the results - except for the band members - obviously not everyone is "Born to be a Superstar" - at least not from this October '97 Schlöhne band.
Maybe better this way?
A special service was provided by the security guards, who patrolled the grounds from 6:00 p.m. onwards, making sure that none of the staff were stolen. They lent out all kinds of games (Memory? Monopoly?), as well as cues and billiard balls. After exploring all the options, I decided to devote myself intensively to one of the televisions.
Thanks to clever planning by UEFA and the DFB, I, as a self-proclaimed football fan (yes, really!), had the opportunity to get involved with the ball during my stay in Schlöhne, since there was no one else to keep me busy. Monday was the second Bundesliga, Tuesday and Wednesday the UEFA Cup and Champions League, and Thursday was the meeting of the clubs of the Cup Winners' Cup competition (which still existed back then; younger fans may want to leaf through football history books).
The evenings starting at 8:15 p.m. were secured, but before that? Only on Tuesday did the broadcasts begin as early as 4:00 p.m., and the seminars ended around 3:30 p.m. But even then, the flexible management of the ZDS (Civil Service School) had solutions ready for the remaining days.
Every afternoon, various trips to various attractions in the surrounding area were offered. I, along with the other three members of our foursome, opted for the Thursday trip—to an idyllic little town on a river that separates Germany from Poland. The geographical location was an interesting factor from a shopping perspective. More specifically, the other bank is the gateway to Eastern Europe.
On the evening of the first day, several guests urgently requested to inform their relatives of their safe arrival at their destination. However, they discovered a minor problem. There was only one publicly accessible telephone on the entire site, located directly in the entrance hall of the main building. The inconspicuous device stood in a niche, and a small note was attached to its buttons: Defective. Six letters that severed our last contact with the public. On this wonderful evening, the three of us, among the nearly 150 volunteers who had arrived with cell phones, made a fortune. At outrageous rates that even exceeded those of Telekom, anyone who needed to could send their messages via radio. (As already mentioned: back then, it wasn't a given that anyone with a small box could call anywhere at any time—sometimes perhaps it was better that way.) In retrospect, it's astonishing that there was already complete cell phone coverage in the middle of the Schlöhner Forest at that time.
I decided to walk the two kilometers to the village one afternoon and not participate in the "Mobile Phones Make Millionaires" campaign.
The next morning, well-rested and in good spirits, we enjoyed breakfast. Afterwards, the four groups gathered to continue their seminars. Each of our course participants had the opportunity to introduce themselves and their work.
I listened, more or less bored, to the more or less exciting stories of the course participants until it was the turn of the first boy of the supposed couple. "In brief: Marcel, 19, has been working in a sheltered workshop in Waldau for three weeks. The work is incredibly fun – much more so than this course so far." Marcel drew laughter from the community service workers and a pained smile from Falko. "I know it's not the most sensible form of leave. But rules are rules, we'll make the best of it." He, too, received approval, namely from his charges. Then the introductions continued, with his secret shadow sitting right next to Marcel. "I guess it's my turn. Matthias, 18 – I've been working in a sheltered workshop in Waldau for three weeks, where I especially enjoy interacting with the people." Falko asked the question, which was actually superfluous: "So you two are working together?"
The two looked at each other, Matthias gave a barely perceptible nod – and Marcel chimed in. "We're not just together at work, we're together privately too. Like, really together." Silence in the forest, or rather in the seminar room. I took the opportunity to look at candidate number three. He was smiling incredibly sweetly to himself, so he certainly didn't seem completely disgusted by the situation. Falko was the first to find his words. "Yes, you can probably imagine that it's not every day that we welcome a loving couple here. To be more precise – he grinned – you're the first." Laughter in the room. After a few benevolent remarks, Falko returned to the program and the panel moved into the second part.
The third candidate in my personal selection was Nicky, who kept his introduction extremely brief: "Nicky, 18, a civilian volunteer in the blood donation service as a driver." That was it; he passed the baton to people who were a bit more eager to talk. It's amazing how many industries have civilian service positions. Almost everywhere where work is required that is beneath the dignity of qualified personnel. Afterward, we were allowed to explain the individual's motives for refusing military service. After lunch in a "relaxed" atmosphere, the actual topic began: "Jurisprudence in Germany." We defined the term, explained what ideas everyone associated with the term law, and lo and behold, it was already 3:30 p.m. Time to go home.
Everyone who had the chance to escape left the area. Those who remained were either interested in football—or were made interested in it. Among them was Nicky, who also watched the action on the green pitch in the flickering TV with interest. We exchanged a few trivial words about the football situation in the country of the European champions (Germany was the reigning champion of the continent in 1997).
The day ended with several rounds of billiards in the pub. A new national sport developed there. Two people served us in this cozy establishment – the landlord and his daughter. 200 volunteers – and one daughter! Many tried to draw attention to themselves. Furthermore, all the visitors to the establishment tried to find out the lady's name – to no avail.
In this matter, I had a slight advantage: Carsten from the nursing home had overheard a conversation between father and daughter a week earlier, which had revealed the young woman to be Heike. He had incorporated this knowledge into his reporting, and I could now benefit from it. In an unobserved moment, I used my advantage: "Heike, could you please bring me a beer?" "...???..."
After I enlightened her, she laughed and asked me to keep my experience a little secret between us. In return, I drank a few beers on the house—cheers.
The next morning, we began with a short film about conflict resolution, which we then discussed. After Falko had stimulated our creativity with a well-known beer-drinking comic book character (via video), we were able to try a role-playing game: attacker and attacked. Falko played the crook, and each of us was allowed to present his proposed solution to the situation. This was followed by a very insightful pros and cons discussion on the topic, followed by lunch, and then our well-known cartoon character with a love of beer.
In the afternoon, we had a police officer visiting us, who offered interesting facts about the topic and also answered all sorts of curious questions. The official part was over promptly at 3:30 p.m. Since the footballers weren't scheduled to play until the evening, and most program makers were busy in the afternoon, putting people like Bärbel Schäfer, Arabella Kiesbauer, and Hans Meiser in the race for ratings (not every trend lasts forever), and I definitely had no intention of getting involved with clay pottery, I decided to walk into the village with Leather-Micha.
There, we wanted to try to perhaps reconnect with home. An employee of our charming host institution had given us precise instructions on the route, which would take about 30 minutes to complete on foot. After 15 minutes of breathing in the wonderful forest air, we reached a fork in the road. Unfortunately, the friendly local had left us in the dark about this wealth of options. We discussed it and tried to determine the correct route based on our rather vague local knowledge. We multiplied the presumed course of the federal highway in front of the Civil Service School toward Schlöhne by the route we had already taken. "To the right," we agreed. After a few meters, we realized that the area to our right was hermetically sealed, including a barbed wire fence. However, it seemed as though it had last been used quite some time ago.
After turning right again, we noticed something again. This time, tracks running out of the middle of the forest and straight into the isolated property. Leder-Micha analyzed: "I think the path here just circles the area. There's a trail here by the old tracks. From there, we'll definitely get to Schlöhne station." "Hmm," I replied, thinking to myself: "Schlöhne station didn't have any branches. And this isn't the main line. But hey, maybe the direction was right by chance." No sooner said than done – forest air is supposed to be healthy.
However, after the trail separated from the tracks and we crossed a disused field without seeing any sign of the village of Schlöhne, I dared for the first time to voice the suspicion that had been growing in me for several minutes: "Perhaps we missed a turnoff?" Michael also decided to seriously consider this possibility. After another ten minutes, we crossed another railway line. This one, however, suggested that it was definitely part of a route listed in the current DB timetable.
Suddenly, we found ourselves on a path that ran parallel to the tracks on both sides. By this point, we had already been walking for a good hour. Again, we tried to reconstruct the route of the federal highway, which we assumed lay behind the adjacent wooded area. After agreeing on a direction, we continued along the straight path, always following the railway line.
Twenty minutes later. We'd found a great activity to pass the time. We were analyzing the mushrooms growing at the edge of the forest. "So we won't starve," Leather-Micha observed. "Hmm, I don't know if eating fly agarics and death cap mushrooms is necessarily recommended. But we won't starve either, that's true. ... I'd rather have a pilsner," and pointed to a carelessly discarded beer can in the grass, albeit already empty. And that was quite some time ago, as the condition of the can revealed. "That suggests that others from our accommodation have already gotten lost here," Micha reflected. An interesting way of drawing a conclusion. "Quite possible. But if I'm not mistaken, there's a bicycle hanging from the tree. Maybe finally someone who knows where to go." "The bicycle?" "Well – it probably didn't cycle here alone," I guessed cheekily.
We did, in fact, encounter two elderly ladies who were obviously also into mushroom picking. "Look, there seem to be edible mushrooms here too," Micha announced. The ladies looked at us a little suspiciously when we approached them. We explained our request and our destination. "You've come to the wrong place. This is the way to Crossberg. Schlöhne is in the exact opposite direction." We thanked them, exchanged meaningful glances, and started back on the same path we had taken out – our destination, the phone, had finally found a direction again.
Passing Pilz and Pils, we reached the spot where we had entered this path parallel to the railway after about 25 minutes. Ten minutes later, the first farms of Schlöhne appeared. A friendly gentleman guided us to the phone booth. "At the school," he told us. When we reached Schlöhne's educational institution, we looked around. Once again, we had to ask a local passerby for advice. "Back 50 meters, then turn left. At the sports hall!" After well over two hours, we finally reached our destination.
The bright yellow phone booth beamed at us expectantly. I pulled out my phone card and stepped into the payphone. Of course, my wallet didn't have any coins suitable for telephone use. So I let Micha go first, who took the opportunity to make a long phone call to his hometown, although I wasn't sure whether he was contacting his family or his trusted motorcycle dealer. While he was on the phone, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. It was Nicky, who, like us, had been considering using the football-free time to make phone calls. After all, he hadn't needed a wide-ranging scouting tour to locate the nearest booth. We briefly exchanged our experiences, laughed heartily, and arranged to meet that evening for football and billiards, while Micha continued chatting undeterred. After his affairs were settled and the conversation surrounding them came to an end, he even surprisingly had two German marks left, which he generously loaned to me interest-free. Two and a half hours of running time, five minutes of phone calls.
Since we didn't intend to go back the same way, we asked a local again. "To the community service school? 15 minutes straight ahead." I couldn't help but laugh when we entered the grounds ten minutes later. Now we realized our mistake. We'd wandered into the forest, but we should have turned left. At least we were back at our accommodation in time for dinner. Our neighbor at the table asked us: "You guys are really busy - what were you doing this afternoon?" We winked at each other. "We were just in town for a quick phone call."
The evening began for Nicky and me in front of the TV with a truly lousy game, so we decided at halftime to switch from the green grass on TV to the green of the pool table. There, Leather-Micha was fighting a ball duel with a young man who immediately qualified as a motorcycle fanatic. Leather pants and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt speak volumes. The two clearly got along well and celebrated their shared interests with several drinks.
"He's from my room. Lars is a nice guy, but pretty annoying after a while," Nicky informed me. I registered this, mentally compared my roommate with Lars, and came to the conclusion that these two had sought each other out and found each other. When the opportunity arises, they should both check whether they're accidentally related. Nicky seemed to be thinking similarly: "Something like that can only really fall into the category of twins." We laughed, played several more rounds of pool, talked about everything under the sun, and thus survived considerably longer than the leather faction, who had already retreated.
When Nicky and I finished our last beer, we were the last survivors of the 200 volunteers; everyone else had already retired to their rooms. Even though we were chatting so hard and our thirst wasn't completely quenched, we decided to call it a night. Outside his room, Nicky gave me a quick hug and said, "Sleep well, friend." I smiled and moved on in my thoughts - we got along great; there was a certain tingling sensation that was growing stronger by the minute. And then his openness to hug me so soon after we'd met, his sweet looks, his whole demeanor... hey, my hormones somehow started to go on a rollercoaster.
As I opened my bedroom door, I reached the bottom station: Lars was lying in my bed, and the empty vodka bottle in front of his... actually, my... sleeping place proved to me that it probably wouldn't make much sense to wake him up. The same applied to Micha, who was lying in his bed, intensely occupied with sawing the wooden frame. I fled—and I was left with only one place to escape. If Lars used my bed, I would have to use his.
My hormones were starting to loop again... Nicky would also be in the room I was about to go to. I hoped he hadn't fallen into a deep sleep immediately after our goodbyes, and I wasn't disappointed. He approached me in the hallway and said, "I don't know if I should worry. Lars isn't in his bed." I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Very honorable—but in vain. The gentleman has chosen a special sobering-up cell." ... Questioning glances ... "My bed." We went back one more time, and I showed him the scene. Nicky laughed, but then became serious: "I hope he hasn't contracted alcohol poisoning." "I don't think so, his breathing and pulse are perfectly normal. Deep sleep, yes, toxicologically safe." "Then that's good, Doctor. And where do you want to spend your night shift?" "Near a dear, nice person who always wakes me up in an emergency." What kind of nonsense was I talking about? Always rushing in and trampling down the newly blossoming bud of friendship... Nicky acted as if he didn't understand the deeper meaning at all.
We sat down at a small table in the room. "We're still way too sober for this place," Nicky analyzed, taking two cans of beer out of his cupboard. "Well, the few beers tonight have definitely outdone the others." We sat on his bed, drank, talked, and talked, getting along brilliantly, as if we'd been best friends for years.
At some point in the middle of the night, Nicky said quietly, "Come on, let's drink to brotherhood." I nodded, we went through with it, and I asked the most interesting question of the very young day: "With or without a kiss?" "No half measures," came the clear answer very close to my ear. So close that Nicky's breath gave me goosebumps. But that was nothing compared to the kiss that followed. Our lips met for seconds. Only fleetingly, but still at least a few breaths longer than necessary.... I enjoyed it; the following seconds remained wordless and gave me time to save this beautiful moment permanently on my internal hard drive.
Nicky looked at me and asked, completely out of the blue, "What do you think about our couple, Matthias and Marcel?" I thought for a moment: "They're both happy and damn safe when they come out here in front of a wild horde of free-roaming volunteers."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, just six months ago that was unthinkable. Matze was quiet, shy, and withdrawn. Until Marci suddenly entered his life. The two met during a job interview at a sheltered workshop, and there was an instant connection. That same evening, the two kissed for the first time – in the quiet corner of an ice cream parlor. Unfortunately, by a very stupid coincidence, Matze's parents were in the same café and witnessed that first tender kiss through a mirror."
"Wait a minute, how on earth do you know all this? Did Lars sleep off his hangover with those two yesterday and the guys told you their life stories?" Nicky laughed, but then quickly became serious. "Marcel and I are cousins."
I wouldn't want to have seen the look on my face at that moment. The next question that came to mind was: "How did you find out about them?" "Okay, the story in a nutshell: Of course, Matze's parents were shocked at first, and it took his mother in particular a while to get over it all. What was remarkable was what his father made of it: "Son, it's unacceptable that you left us in the dark about this for so long. How do you think we'll react? Did we ever say anything against gays? You're our boy, you'll always be our boy, and you should be happy. But we can only support you if you trust us unconditionally. There are idiots, probably enough of them, and it can't be ruled out that you'll have problems with them. But then we want to be there for you." After this speech, which Matze memorized word for word and told me again and again later, he was on cloud nine. Marcel and Matthias fully embraced their love within their immediate family, and I was also aware of this at Marcel's 19th birthday party. Both families were completely accepting, with the only black sheep being my old girlfriend. When she started to rant about them both in the most horrific way, I promptly kicked her out and dumped her.
I wouldn't have wanted to see myself again. Girlfriend??? Damn, I was on the verge of falling in love. No, I had fallen in love. And then this story.
I had nothing left to hide and decided to be completely honest. "Nicky, thank you for so much openness and trust. But I think... Marcel and Matthias aren't the only ones here in Schlöhne who aren't interested in women. ... Nicky, I think I've fallen in love with you.
Be silent.
Nicky looked at me and lovingly put her arm around my shoulder. "Oh man. We only met here two days ago, and only yesterday did we really connect. You mean so much to me, you're so insightful, so open, so sweet. I don't say things like this easily, but you're a true friend. More than that. We drank Brotherhood—so we're brothers. But love... no, I can't love you. I'm not gay."
Wow, that hit home. It would have been too good to be true.
"Nicky, that's... kind of..." Tears welled up in my eyes. "Somehow, there's always a happy ending here."
He looked at me, his arm still around my shoulder. "Hey, I don't want anything to change. Friends for life?" He looked at me questioningly. I nodded; he meant far too much to me to question everything. It's funny how two guys can get so close in two days. I knew the deep, close bond between us would remain. It had only been formed that evening, but it was already unbreakable. But it wasn't love.
A realization that caused my rollercoaster hormones to give way to the need for a cigarette. Absentmindedly, I fished a cigarette out of the pack and was about to light it, but Nicky interrupted. "Please, can you go outside and smoke? I can't stand it." I smiled at him. "Sure." He took his arm from my shoulder and stroked the back of my head.
I stood up and wondered where I could have a quiet cigarette in the house. I chose the TV room, if only to check the final score of the game of Cucumbers on the teletext. I left the light off, sat down on the couch, reached for the remote control in the dark, and was suddenly startled: A lighter had suddenly flared up in the armchair opposite. "My God, you scared me," I said, somewhat reproachfully, to the late-night smoker. Despite my temporarily elevated adrenaline levels, I continued to avoid using the ceiling light and turned on the TV as my light source.
The person opposite me seemed sad, had short blond hair at first glance, and was obviously suffering from insomnia. "What are you doing here?" he asked me. I lit my cigarette and replied, "Smoking, and you?" "Ditto, my name is Sebastian, by the way." I introduced myself and asked what was driving him to the cigarette pack at three in the morning – that's how late it was by now. "Oh, I have this idiot in my room, stress at home, and... and... and everything." Suddenly, he was shaken by a fit of tears, a fit of tears out of nowhere. "The night of tears," went through my head. "Come over here," I urged him, pulling a tissue from my pocket. I was amazed that he did. I was even more amazed that he sat down on the sofa, immediately sought my company, and could only utter "Sorry" before completely sinking into tears.
One minute I was deep in the valley of grief, and now he seemed to need my help. I quickly ruffled his blond hair. "Hey, okay! Want to have another beer?" He nodded and sobbed. "Wait, I'll be right back."
I rushed to my emergency quarters, briefly explained the situation to Nicky, and he pressed two beers into my hand and asked for my understanding: "I'm going to go to sleep now. Please be so kind and keep your voice down when you come back later. Okay, brother?" "You can count on me, brother," I replied and returned to the TV room, where Sebastian seemed to have recovered somewhat.
"Everything okay?" I asked him, pressing the beer into Sebastian's hand. He nodded, opened the can, and drank silently. "If you want to talk, then talk," I offered. But he simply sought my company, finished his drink in no time, smoked another cigarette, then stood up, said thank you, and disappeared.
I also smoked again, calmly finished my beer, checked the results of the cucumber game, and then, feeling a bit groggy by now, staggered back to my room. Nicky was already asleep, and I also fell into my (or Lars'?) bed and immediately began my night's rest.
On Thursday, after class, we headed to the border town. Nobody was interested in the city itself, but they were interested in the other side of the river – SHOPPING!!! Apparently, several seminar participants were quite shivering when they returned home – damned smuggling! I had brought a carton of cigarettes with me, as per regulations. No more than allowed. It wasn't my fault that Nicky later handed me the carton he'd brought with him.
That evening, I was just walking across the parking lot to the main building for dinner when I noticed something on some of the volunteers' cars. I spotted license plates that looked familiar – from the neighboring districts of my hometown. I immediately tried to conduct a careful investigation into the owners. It would save me the train ride the next day. Near a vehicle that might have been in question, a young man was busy cleaning his car's windshield. I approached him out of the blue: "Tell me, who owns the Fiesta next to you? Do you have any idea?" "The gay guy in the room next to me... why do you want to know?" I had little desire to explain to the windshield cleaner why I wanted to speak to the driver. But the term "gay" alone made me explain: "I'm looking for someone who can transport me back to my hometown for less than the train." The cleaning maniac looked at me, a bit confused, while I waited for an answer. Now I finally wanted to know who might be looking for a male passenger. "Contact Sebastian from Room 17, but if you ride with him, make sure he doesn't turn down a quiet forest path with you." He laughed filthy, looked at his clean windshield, and disappeared.
My mind began to grind. Sebastian? Did the guy say Sebastian? With 200 volunteers, there was a high chance there would be another Sebastian running around. But Sebastian had told me he was having trouble with his roommate. That could very well fit the man with the clean window.
In any case, I was determined to save the ticket and made my way to room 17. I knocked. Someone called in, I opened the door... and of course, I saw the Sebastian who had revealed his tears to me the previous night. He gave me a rather venomous look, which didn't fit at all with his sad, yet beautiful eyes. "What do you want? Come on, rub salt in the wounds!" "Listen. I don't know what happened to you last night. And if you don't want to tell me, that's your business. I was happy to comfort you, even without words. And I damn well enjoyed it. Basti, what I want to know is: You're from my neighborhood, and I don't feel like taking the train home. Will you give me a ride?" He looked at me with wide eyes, nodded, and said quietly, "I owe you that. And thank you for being there tonight." We smiled at each other.
With the drive home a thing of the past, we ended the last evening in our "forest prison" with a boozy night. Everyone bought another round – Heike was the last one, probably because she was finally ready to call it a night.
Everyone who had participated in this internal civilian "final seminar" was either unable or unwilling to concentrate on the official end of the course on Friday morning. Neither Nicky nor I, who chatted for hours in a room after the "official" part. Micha and Lars slept off their hangover in a room that contained most of my luggage. Before we were struck by sleep on Friday morning, Nicky and I swore eternal friendship. A vow that was again tied to a kiss. Was there still something to be done? No, damn it, no betrayal of my brother's trust! That was the last thing on my mind before I fell asleep. Around 5 a.m. Three hours until I had to get up. My last thought before jumping into the arms of Morpheus: "Who the hell would get us out of bed for breakfast?"
We managed to crawl out of bed ourselves. The question of how remains to be seen. Dead tired, we completed our last breakfast and the final lesson. Afterwards, we had one last lunch together in the now actually cozy, narrow space of the pub, probably also because some had already fled. Rene, Micha, and Torsten were among them, although I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to them. I sat at a table with Matthias, Marcel, and Nicky. We said our goodbyes a little later. I wished Matze and Marci good luck and hugged Nicky goodbye in front of the rest of the group. "I hope to see each other again as soon as possible." "You can count on it, brother." He got on the bus with the others, which went to the train station. I was alone and looked around for Sebastian. He was already standing behind me and gave me a real fright when I turned around. "Let's go." A little later we left the forest idyll of the Schlöhner barracks, which really used to be one, as we found out at the reception at the end.
It was goodbye to community service school, and we sped home, including some risky overtaking maneuvers that nearly brought me to a heart attack. Much like the driver next to me. Sebastian was... indescribable. We talked, I enjoyed his manner, his sweet eyes. And at some point, he actually did what I'd been warned about: He turned onto a forest path and stopped. "Why did you hug me the night before last?" "You were sad. ... and I can't stand sweet, sad boys." He looked at me for a few seconds, then suddenly something clicked inside him and he started talking. "They all just picked on me in Schlöhne. I just told Steffen that I was happy for Matthias and Marcel and that I'd also like... to have a boyfriend. And then that asshole betrayed me like that. He literally told everyone he met. And he didn't leave a hair on my head. Neither he nor the others." I smiled at him: "You've picked the wrong person. And thanks to Steffen, I know that we have a little more in common than just our geographical location." He looked at me incredulously: "Are you serious?" "I'm completely serious."
Sebastian took a step toward me and put his arm on my shoulder. "You're so sweet. But can you love me too?" A good question. Just two days ago, Nicky was my true love, which he had now swapped for the role of brother. But Basti was undoubtedly cut from the same cloth. And I was about to fall in love for the second time in a very short space of time. Sparks flew in the middle of a lonely clearing—and again, so quickly. But I left his question unanswered for the time being.
Basti's Fiesta stopped in front of my door. "And now?" he asked me, anxious about saying goodbye. "Come up with me if you want." He wanted to and later sat in my room. "Can you imagine something becoming between us?" he asked me more urgently. I answered him. "No. I can't imagine it." ... I know something becoming between us. I love you." We sank into a never-ending kiss.
On Sunday, we all sat in the garden that belonged to Matze's father, which was located right by the water after a former open-pit mine was flooded. Nicky was the only victim... he had lost his girlfriend and hadn't found a "replacement" as quickly as I had. Although Basti was anything but a replacement. My great love... I had never believed I could fall in love in such a short time. And then it happened twice in two days. Stories that life writes. I had every reason to be happy. Like Matze and Marci next to me and the man in my arms. Basti....
One day later, I entered my station. Daily routine began again. But after a long day at work, great happiness was now waiting for me.
Basti and I, Marcel and Matthias, and Nicky will never forget Schlöhne. Life paths that crossed, never to part again.
Basti, Matze, Marci, Nicky… Thank you for being there! That's how it was in 1997, and that's how it still is this year.
I was in the internal medicine ward of a church hospital, which isn't relevant to the story, but should at least be mentioned. Incidentally, no one should think that in a church institution of this kind, there are three crucifixes in every hospital room and the priest performs the operations. Doctors, patients, nurses, and other members of the staff are normal people "like you and me," only the administration is controlled by the institution, which believes in higher powers.
During my first ten weeks on the ward, I had plenty of time to get a taste of all the day-to-day processes on such a ward, and in some cases, the word "taste" was taken quite literally. The range of tasks ranged from caring for patients to managing a ward kitchen to in-house patient transport. Hey, actually, a whole book could be written about that.
So, after completing the first two and a half months, my induction course was on the agenda. A business trip of the utterly pointless category: In the time I'd already completed it, I'd truly become more than familiar with everything important, but the legal requirements must be met.
The central point of contact for civilian service members at the beginning of their careers (well, beginning...) was the civilian service school in Schlöhne, Brandenburg. Since a five-story hospital with an adjacent nursing home has more than one alternative service member, I tried to gather information about this trip from colleagues who had already completed this adventure.
It was interesting that although my colleagues in my community service year had started their service a month later, they had already completed their introductory course. Carsten, whom I had known for a long time from my school days and who worked in the retirement home attached to the building, told me that the community service school would be about two kilometers from the town of Schlöhne itself. Schlöhne itself, he warned me, could be described with much goodwill as a quiet village. "The phrase 'dead ass' has its origins there," Carsten explained after his return to civilization. He had the pleasure of being delegated to this course just a week before me. The community service school itself – in the middle of the forest, an isolated complex of buildings. But you would still have fun. If you could improvise... So much for Carsten's report. Well then – off to the village – fun in the forest.
To put it in perspective: In 1997, walking around with a cell phone in your pocket was anything but commonplace, and since I was temporarily without a driver's license at the time, despite being 20 years old, for certain reasons (anyone who has ever earned their living driving a pizza delivery service knows what I mean!), my mobility on site would be extremely limited.
After all, around 200 volunteers, all male, housed in a building complex for five days—there would be some nice sights to see, as well as perhaps an opportunity or two. If the well-known ten percent rule applied, there would be about 19 other people who wouldn't mind not seeing any women for a week. An opportunity for me to possibly find the happiness of my life. However, on a scale of zero to 100, my hopes were in the low single digits.
On Monday morning, right on time for my scheduled departure, I stood at my hometown's main train station, waiting to see if any other travelers from my hometown looked like they were going to have to spend a week on an isolated piece of land in the countryside. No.
After a 45-minute journey, the local train stopped in Würmersfelde. I immediately suspected one of the boarding passengers was headed to the same destination as me. He sat down directly on the opposite seat. After the train left the station, he immediately asked me, "Are you going to Schlöhne too?" I nodded, and instantly the spell was broken. My new acquaintance immediately began to talk like a waterfall. Among other things, I learned where he was doing his community service, where, when, and how he had graduated from high school, and why his girlfriend had dumped him. Given his captivating narrative style, I could easily figure out the reason: the woman would have had to be deaf to put up with him any longer. I didn't tell him that I was 100 percent uninterested in this fact—besides, I had no opportunity to.
After I was well informed about him, I was forced to give out some brief information about myself, while keeping one or two facts to myself.
We had to change trains in Fellendorf, but had a layover of almost an hour. The weather was perfect: gray on gray, with a light westerly wind spraying fine raindrops in our faces. Moreover, the station strongly aroused the suspicion of having been spared various political upheavals. After scouting out where our connecting train would depart, we went in search of a kiosk. Sure enough, we found a place to quench our thirst for coffee.
My friend from Würmersfeld was determined to pick up some newspapers. In the back foyer of the establishment, he discovered a magazine with advertising on a table and immediately began leafing through it vigorously, much to the annoyance of the kiosk owner. "Would you mind paying for the newspaper before you read it?" the lady asked gruffly. "But it was lying on the table back there!" my thrifty companion tried to justify himself. "You have absolutely no business being there!" the lady explained. Gritting his teeth, he paid for the paper so he'd have something to read for the rest of the train journey. I didn't grit my teeth; perhaps that would give me some peace and quiet.
We went to a waiting room, the interior and exterior of which made an imposing impression. From the outside, it looked as if King Barbarossa had sought refuge there. The interior walls resembled both a dating site and a political discussion platform; a kind of fixed internet café, only without service and online access. Football fans from half of Germany had immortalized themselves here, letting us know who would be promoted or relegated. Political statements for almost every major party, naturally including unprintable notes for political opponents. Passengers passing through had noted down details of their travel itineraries. Bavarians, Prussians, Saarlanders—half the nation seemed to know this waiting room at Fellendorf train station.
After thoroughly studying all the notes, it was time to change platforms. While we waited for the regional express to Crossberg, we made assumptions about our fellow passengers. We came to the conclusion that some of those we observed might well have Schlöhne as their destination. Sure enough, a young man, whom we suspected of being a leather fetishist based on his clothing on the platform, approached us on the train: "So, where are we going?"
Now that our Schlöhne travel committee had grown to three members, a lively conversation ensued. Our third member was named Michael, a motorcycle enthusiast without a driver's license (hence the leather upholstery) who worked as an assistant caretaker at a youth hostel. In Crossberg, where we also had a short stay, a fourth member joined us. He had curly hair and quickly revealed himself to be a real cheerleader. He introduced himself as Torsten.
Then a small argument arose about how to make the most of the stay. Leather-Micha (that's the name Torsten gave him) had an urgent need to browse the press shop for relevant literature (on motorcycles). Rene from Würmersfelde also wanted to buy a daily newspaper, while Torsten and I desperately wanted a cup of coffee. So, an agreement was reached: we four volunteers would temporarily split into interest-based pairs.
Shortly before departure, a small problem arose: Despite intensive search efforts, we were unable to find the designated platform for the train to Schlöhne. A railway employee directed us to the eastern end, from there a shunter directed us west. After passing through two tunnels, crossing three overpasses, and wandering through the main station hall at least three times, we accidentally discovered a map that showed us the right way. Lo and behold, we had already trudged past the superbly hidden entrance to the platform three times.
On the train itself, it was now an open secret who would be getting off in Schlöhne. A minibus was waiting for us there, carrying a total of 15 volunteers.
I studied the course tourists present and came to the conclusion that it would be a boring week if the other 175... but wait and see.
We passed the village, and after about two kilometers, the bus turned into a fenced-in area—our destination had been reached. Some expressed the not entirely serious suspicion that we had been kidnapped by the Bundeswehr. Indeed, the Civil Service School's resemblance to a barracks was undeniable...
We unloaded our luggage and entered the main building of the complex. Here, too, I had the impression that the past few years had passed by without a trace, similar to the Fellendorf train station. Then it was time to allocate the rooms. The lady in charge explained: "There are smoking and non-smoking rooms." Since Rene was a non-smoker, Torsten had already found someone with similar hobbies, and I didn't know anyone else, I shared a room with Leather-Micha and mentally prepared myself to become a motorcycle expert in the coming days.
After receiving our keys from the experienced room assignor, we went to our shared quarters. To do so, we had to cross a sort of roll call square, which was currently being used as a parking area by civilian volunteers. This square was surrounded by three different buildings, arranged in a clearly arranged position and radiating architecturally valuable construction—at least, that must have been the case in the past. One of the buildings, which had actually made the best impression, was closed for construction work.
After making our beds, we returned to the main building, where we were told: "Here to the main hall, gentlemen!" There, the lady of the house, the director of the facility, began bombarding us with various welcoming and instructive phrases. First, the front rows of seats, which had remained empty for some unknown reason, were occupied. The program was then presented in detail, constantly interrupted by humorous interjections from the conscientious objectors. At some point, after several minutes, Lady Chef finally got to the crux of the matter: the division into four different seminar groups. I had already completed my crux of the matter and had spotted a total of three people who, at first glance, were worth a closer look. And two of them were sitting right next to each other, exchanging rather unmistakable glances upon closer inspection. Hidden, but not entirely invisible, amorous glances that showed me I wasn't alone here. Or was I?
Each of the four future group leaders was given the opportunity to briefly explain what they would be dealing with. An older lady, whom I suspected had already been working in education for several years, especially in other political systems, offered to explore the topic of schools in the GDR. Yes, she seemed predestined for it. Trainee number two had an unavoidable topic in store: right-wing extremism in Germany. Even better was the topic the third lady had in store: addressing current political problems. Then the only man appeared on stage. His way of presenting the topic stood out somewhat from the others. Jurisprudence in Germany, that was the title of his course. It didn't sound interesting either, but it's the tone that counts. In any case, we quickly agreed that none of this had anything to do with our community service positions. (Or did it? How would I be punished if I gave someone the wrong pill? Not at all; a community service worker isn't allowed to hand out medication.)
After a brief discussion, the entire group I had traveled with decided on the young man, who seemed relaxed and fresh. But much more importantly, we had to satisfy our initial hunger. Since the actual canteen was located in the building, which was closed at the time due to construction work, we were allowed to eat in the in-house pub. Over the course of the course, we often wondered how this public place could have existed without conscientious objection. The clientele consisted of 98 percent civilian volunteers. The closely spaced tables created an almost "romantic" atmosphere, which, given the male ratio of 100, was naturally disliked by the majority. Extreme care had to be taken not to accidentally grab a noodle from your neighbor's plate.
After dinner, we gathered in the seminar room, where they were initially looking for four volunteers to take a different course: There was an acute shortage of space. Our young seminar leader offered to draw lots, but four volunteers volunteered to switch. I breathed a sigh of relief: Chance had ensured that both the supposed couple and candidate number three were stuck in my course. Now we could get started.
Falko, our boss for the next five days, first explained how he envisioned the itinerary. This plan was noted and immediately accepted by everyone. After a brief introduction to the topic, the first day was already over, or almost over. After dinner, another general meeting was scheduled to inform us about the possibilities for leisure activities, which in turn discouraged us from doing so... The motorized Schlöhne tourists among us could be recommended the discos or ice hockey rinks in the nearby towns. For the others, only the in-house options remained. For example, three televisions invited us to a cozy get-together. There were also pool tables, foosball tables, and specialized rooms for pottery (?!) and bands. Indeed, a group was found that decided to produce music by the end of their stay, including Rene and Torsten. Incidentally, no one heard anything about the results - except for the band members - obviously not everyone is "Born to be a Superstar" - at least not from this October '97 Schlöhne band.
Maybe better this way?
A special service was provided by the security guards, who patrolled the grounds from 6:00 p.m. onwards, making sure that none of the staff were stolen. They lent out all kinds of games (Memory? Monopoly?), as well as cues and billiard balls. After exploring all the options, I decided to devote myself intensively to one of the televisions.
Thanks to clever planning by UEFA and the DFB, I, as a self-proclaimed football fan (yes, really!), had the opportunity to get involved with the ball during my stay in Schlöhne, since there was no one else to keep me busy. Monday was the second Bundesliga, Tuesday and Wednesday the UEFA Cup and Champions League, and Thursday was the meeting of the clubs of the Cup Winners' Cup competition (which still existed back then; younger fans may want to leaf through football history books).
The evenings starting at 8:15 p.m. were secured, but before that? Only on Tuesday did the broadcasts begin as early as 4:00 p.m., and the seminars ended around 3:30 p.m. But even then, the flexible management of the ZDS (Civil Service School) had solutions ready for the remaining days.
Every afternoon, various trips to various attractions in the surrounding area were offered. I, along with the other three members of our foursome, opted for the Thursday trip—to an idyllic little town on a river that separates Germany from Poland. The geographical location was an interesting factor from a shopping perspective. More specifically, the other bank is the gateway to Eastern Europe.
On the evening of the first day, several guests urgently requested to inform their relatives of their safe arrival at their destination. However, they discovered a minor problem. There was only one publicly accessible telephone on the entire site, located directly in the entrance hall of the main building. The inconspicuous device stood in a niche, and a small note was attached to its buttons: Defective. Six letters that severed our last contact with the public. On this wonderful evening, the three of us, among the nearly 150 volunteers who had arrived with cell phones, made a fortune. At outrageous rates that even exceeded those of Telekom, anyone who needed to could send their messages via radio. (As already mentioned: back then, it wasn't a given that anyone with a small box could call anywhere at any time—sometimes perhaps it was better that way.) In retrospect, it's astonishing that there was already complete cell phone coverage in the middle of the Schlöhner Forest at that time.
I decided to walk the two kilometers to the village one afternoon and not participate in the "Mobile Phones Make Millionaires" campaign.
The next morning, well-rested and in good spirits, we enjoyed breakfast. Afterwards, the four groups gathered to continue their seminars. Each of our course participants had the opportunity to introduce themselves and their work.
I listened, more or less bored, to the more or less exciting stories of the course participants until it was the turn of the first boy of the supposed couple. "In brief: Marcel, 19, has been working in a sheltered workshop in Waldau for three weeks. The work is incredibly fun – much more so than this course so far." Marcel drew laughter from the community service workers and a pained smile from Falko. "I know it's not the most sensible form of leave. But rules are rules, we'll make the best of it." He, too, received approval, namely from his charges. Then the introductions continued, with his secret shadow sitting right next to Marcel. "I guess it's my turn. Matthias, 18 – I've been working in a sheltered workshop in Waldau for three weeks, where I especially enjoy interacting with the people." Falko asked the question, which was actually superfluous: "So you two are working together?"
The two looked at each other, Matthias gave a barely perceptible nod – and Marcel chimed in. "We're not just together at work, we're together privately too. Like, really together." Silence in the forest, or rather in the seminar room. I took the opportunity to look at candidate number three. He was smiling incredibly sweetly to himself, so he certainly didn't seem completely disgusted by the situation. Falko was the first to find his words. "Yes, you can probably imagine that it's not every day that we welcome a loving couple here. To be more precise – he grinned – you're the first." Laughter in the room. After a few benevolent remarks, Falko returned to the program and the panel moved into the second part.
The third candidate in my personal selection was Nicky, who kept his introduction extremely brief: "Nicky, 18, a civilian volunteer in the blood donation service as a driver." That was it; he passed the baton to people who were a bit more eager to talk. It's amazing how many industries have civilian service positions. Almost everywhere where work is required that is beneath the dignity of qualified personnel. Afterward, we were allowed to explain the individual's motives for refusing military service. After lunch in a "relaxed" atmosphere, the actual topic began: "Jurisprudence in Germany." We defined the term, explained what ideas everyone associated with the term law, and lo and behold, it was already 3:30 p.m. Time to go home.
Everyone who had the chance to escape left the area. Those who remained were either interested in football—or were made interested in it. Among them was Nicky, who also watched the action on the green pitch in the flickering TV with interest. We exchanged a few trivial words about the football situation in the country of the European champions (Germany was the reigning champion of the continent in 1997).
The day ended with several rounds of billiards in the pub. A new national sport developed there. Two people served us in this cozy establishment – the landlord and his daughter. 200 volunteers – and one daughter! Many tried to draw attention to themselves. Furthermore, all the visitors to the establishment tried to find out the lady's name – to no avail.
In this matter, I had a slight advantage: Carsten from the nursing home had overheard a conversation between father and daughter a week earlier, which had revealed the young woman to be Heike. He had incorporated this knowledge into his reporting, and I could now benefit from it. In an unobserved moment, I used my advantage: "Heike, could you please bring me a beer?" "...???..."
After I enlightened her, she laughed and asked me to keep my experience a little secret between us. In return, I drank a few beers on the house—cheers.
The next morning, we began with a short film about conflict resolution, which we then discussed. After Falko had stimulated our creativity with a well-known beer-drinking comic book character (via video), we were able to try a role-playing game: attacker and attacked. Falko played the crook, and each of us was allowed to present his proposed solution to the situation. This was followed by a very insightful pros and cons discussion on the topic, followed by lunch, and then our well-known cartoon character with a love of beer.
In the afternoon, we had a police officer visiting us, who offered interesting facts about the topic and also answered all sorts of curious questions. The official part was over promptly at 3:30 p.m. Since the footballers weren't scheduled to play until the evening, and most program makers were busy in the afternoon, putting people like Bärbel Schäfer, Arabella Kiesbauer, and Hans Meiser in the race for ratings (not every trend lasts forever), and I definitely had no intention of getting involved with clay pottery, I decided to walk into the village with Leather-Micha.
There, we wanted to try to perhaps reconnect with home. An employee of our charming host institution had given us precise instructions on the route, which would take about 30 minutes to complete on foot. After 15 minutes of breathing in the wonderful forest air, we reached a fork in the road. Unfortunately, the friendly local had left us in the dark about this wealth of options. We discussed it and tried to determine the correct route based on our rather vague local knowledge. We multiplied the presumed course of the federal highway in front of the Civil Service School toward Schlöhne by the route we had already taken. "To the right," we agreed. After a few meters, we realized that the area to our right was hermetically sealed, including a barbed wire fence. However, it seemed as though it had last been used quite some time ago.
After turning right again, we noticed something again. This time, tracks running out of the middle of the forest and straight into the isolated property. Leder-Micha analyzed: "I think the path here just circles the area. There's a trail here by the old tracks. From there, we'll definitely get to Schlöhne station." "Hmm," I replied, thinking to myself: "Schlöhne station didn't have any branches. And this isn't the main line. But hey, maybe the direction was right by chance." No sooner said than done – forest air is supposed to be healthy.
However, after the trail separated from the tracks and we crossed a disused field without seeing any sign of the village of Schlöhne, I dared for the first time to voice the suspicion that had been growing in me for several minutes: "Perhaps we missed a turnoff?" Michael also decided to seriously consider this possibility. After another ten minutes, we crossed another railway line. This one, however, suggested that it was definitely part of a route listed in the current DB timetable.
Suddenly, we found ourselves on a path that ran parallel to the tracks on both sides. By this point, we had already been walking for a good hour. Again, we tried to reconstruct the route of the federal highway, which we assumed lay behind the adjacent wooded area. After agreeing on a direction, we continued along the straight path, always following the railway line.
Twenty minutes later. We'd found a great activity to pass the time. We were analyzing the mushrooms growing at the edge of the forest. "So we won't starve," Leather-Micha observed. "Hmm, I don't know if eating fly agarics and death cap mushrooms is necessarily recommended. But we won't starve either, that's true. ... I'd rather have a pilsner," and pointed to a carelessly discarded beer can in the grass, albeit already empty. And that was quite some time ago, as the condition of the can revealed. "That suggests that others from our accommodation have already gotten lost here," Micha reflected. An interesting way of drawing a conclusion. "Quite possible. But if I'm not mistaken, there's a bicycle hanging from the tree. Maybe finally someone who knows where to go." "The bicycle?" "Well – it probably didn't cycle here alone," I guessed cheekily.
We did, in fact, encounter two elderly ladies who were obviously also into mushroom picking. "Look, there seem to be edible mushrooms here too," Micha announced. The ladies looked at us a little suspiciously when we approached them. We explained our request and our destination. "You've come to the wrong place. This is the way to Crossberg. Schlöhne is in the exact opposite direction." We thanked them, exchanged meaningful glances, and started back on the same path we had taken out – our destination, the phone, had finally found a direction again.
Passing Pilz and Pils, we reached the spot where we had entered this path parallel to the railway after about 25 minutes. Ten minutes later, the first farms of Schlöhne appeared. A friendly gentleman guided us to the phone booth. "At the school," he told us. When we reached Schlöhne's educational institution, we looked around. Once again, we had to ask a local passerby for advice. "Back 50 meters, then turn left. At the sports hall!" After well over two hours, we finally reached our destination.
The bright yellow phone booth beamed at us expectantly. I pulled out my phone card and stepped into the payphone. Of course, my wallet didn't have any coins suitable for telephone use. So I let Micha go first, who took the opportunity to make a long phone call to his hometown, although I wasn't sure whether he was contacting his family or his trusted motorcycle dealer. While he was on the phone, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. It was Nicky, who, like us, had been considering using the football-free time to make phone calls. After all, he hadn't needed a wide-ranging scouting tour to locate the nearest booth. We briefly exchanged our experiences, laughed heartily, and arranged to meet that evening for football and billiards, while Micha continued chatting undeterred. After his affairs were settled and the conversation surrounding them came to an end, he even surprisingly had two German marks left, which he generously loaned to me interest-free. Two and a half hours of running time, five minutes of phone calls.
Since we didn't intend to go back the same way, we asked a local again. "To the community service school? 15 minutes straight ahead." I couldn't help but laugh when we entered the grounds ten minutes later. Now we realized our mistake. We'd wandered into the forest, but we should have turned left. At least we were back at our accommodation in time for dinner. Our neighbor at the table asked us: "You guys are really busy - what were you doing this afternoon?" We winked at each other. "We were just in town for a quick phone call."
The evening began for Nicky and me in front of the TV with a truly lousy game, so we decided at halftime to switch from the green grass on TV to the green of the pool table. There, Leather-Micha was fighting a ball duel with a young man who immediately qualified as a motorcycle fanatic. Leather pants and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt speak volumes. The two clearly got along well and celebrated their shared interests with several drinks.
"He's from my room. Lars is a nice guy, but pretty annoying after a while," Nicky informed me. I registered this, mentally compared my roommate with Lars, and came to the conclusion that these two had sought each other out and found each other. When the opportunity arises, they should both check whether they're accidentally related. Nicky seemed to be thinking similarly: "Something like that can only really fall into the category of twins." We laughed, played several more rounds of pool, talked about everything under the sun, and thus survived considerably longer than the leather faction, who had already retreated.
When Nicky and I finished our last beer, we were the last survivors of the 200 volunteers; everyone else had already retired to their rooms. Even though we were chatting so hard and our thirst wasn't completely quenched, we decided to call it a night. Outside his room, Nicky gave me a quick hug and said, "Sleep well, friend." I smiled and moved on in my thoughts - we got along great; there was a certain tingling sensation that was growing stronger by the minute. And then his openness to hug me so soon after we'd met, his sweet looks, his whole demeanor... hey, my hormones somehow started to go on a rollercoaster.
As I opened my bedroom door, I reached the bottom station: Lars was lying in my bed, and the empty vodka bottle in front of his... actually, my... sleeping place proved to me that it probably wouldn't make much sense to wake him up. The same applied to Micha, who was lying in his bed, intensely occupied with sawing the wooden frame. I fled—and I was left with only one place to escape. If Lars used my bed, I would have to use his.
My hormones were starting to loop again... Nicky would also be in the room I was about to go to. I hoped he hadn't fallen into a deep sleep immediately after our goodbyes, and I wasn't disappointed. He approached me in the hallway and said, "I don't know if I should worry. Lars isn't in his bed." I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Very honorable—but in vain. The gentleman has chosen a special sobering-up cell." ... Questioning glances ... "My bed." We went back one more time, and I showed him the scene. Nicky laughed, but then became serious: "I hope he hasn't contracted alcohol poisoning." "I don't think so, his breathing and pulse are perfectly normal. Deep sleep, yes, toxicologically safe." "Then that's good, Doctor. And where do you want to spend your night shift?" "Near a dear, nice person who always wakes me up in an emergency." What kind of nonsense was I talking about? Always rushing in and trampling down the newly blossoming bud of friendship... Nicky acted as if he didn't understand the deeper meaning at all.
We sat down at a small table in the room. "We're still way too sober for this place," Nicky analyzed, taking two cans of beer out of his cupboard. "Well, the few beers tonight have definitely outdone the others." We sat on his bed, drank, talked, and talked, getting along brilliantly, as if we'd been best friends for years.
At some point in the middle of the night, Nicky said quietly, "Come on, let's drink to brotherhood." I nodded, we went through with it, and I asked the most interesting question of the very young day: "With or without a kiss?" "No half measures," came the clear answer very close to my ear. So close that Nicky's breath gave me goosebumps. But that was nothing compared to the kiss that followed. Our lips met for seconds. Only fleetingly, but still at least a few breaths longer than necessary.... I enjoyed it; the following seconds remained wordless and gave me time to save this beautiful moment permanently on my internal hard drive.
Nicky looked at me and asked, completely out of the blue, "What do you think about our couple, Matthias and Marcel?" I thought for a moment: "They're both happy and damn safe when they come out here in front of a wild horde of free-roaming volunteers."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, just six months ago that was unthinkable. Matze was quiet, shy, and withdrawn. Until Marci suddenly entered his life. The two met during a job interview at a sheltered workshop, and there was an instant connection. That same evening, the two kissed for the first time – in the quiet corner of an ice cream parlor. Unfortunately, by a very stupid coincidence, Matze's parents were in the same café and witnessed that first tender kiss through a mirror."
"Wait a minute, how on earth do you know all this? Did Lars sleep off his hangover with those two yesterday and the guys told you their life stories?" Nicky laughed, but then quickly became serious. "Marcel and I are cousins."
I wouldn't want to have seen the look on my face at that moment. The next question that came to mind was: "How did you find out about them?" "Okay, the story in a nutshell: Of course, Matze's parents were shocked at first, and it took his mother in particular a while to get over it all. What was remarkable was what his father made of it: "Son, it's unacceptable that you left us in the dark about this for so long. How do you think we'll react? Did we ever say anything against gays? You're our boy, you'll always be our boy, and you should be happy. But we can only support you if you trust us unconditionally. There are idiots, probably enough of them, and it can't be ruled out that you'll have problems with them. But then we want to be there for you." After this speech, which Matze memorized word for word and told me again and again later, he was on cloud nine. Marcel and Matthias fully embraced their love within their immediate family, and I was also aware of this at Marcel's 19th birthday party. Both families were completely accepting, with the only black sheep being my old girlfriend. When she started to rant about them both in the most horrific way, I promptly kicked her out and dumped her.
I wouldn't have wanted to see myself again. Girlfriend??? Damn, I was on the verge of falling in love. No, I had fallen in love. And then this story.
I had nothing left to hide and decided to be completely honest. "Nicky, thank you for so much openness and trust. But I think... Marcel and Matthias aren't the only ones here in Schlöhne who aren't interested in women. ... Nicky, I think I've fallen in love with you.
Be silent.
Nicky looked at me and lovingly put her arm around my shoulder. "Oh man. We only met here two days ago, and only yesterday did we really connect. You mean so much to me, you're so insightful, so open, so sweet. I don't say things like this easily, but you're a true friend. More than that. We drank Brotherhood—so we're brothers. But love... no, I can't love you. I'm not gay."
Wow, that hit home. It would have been too good to be true.
"Nicky, that's... kind of..." Tears welled up in my eyes. "Somehow, there's always a happy ending here."
He looked at me, his arm still around my shoulder. "Hey, I don't want anything to change. Friends for life?" He looked at me questioningly. I nodded; he meant far too much to me to question everything. It's funny how two guys can get so close in two days. I knew the deep, close bond between us would remain. It had only been formed that evening, but it was already unbreakable. But it wasn't love.
A realization that caused my rollercoaster hormones to give way to the need for a cigarette. Absentmindedly, I fished a cigarette out of the pack and was about to light it, but Nicky interrupted. "Please, can you go outside and smoke? I can't stand it." I smiled at him. "Sure." He took his arm from my shoulder and stroked the back of my head.
I stood up and wondered where I could have a quiet cigarette in the house. I chose the TV room, if only to check the final score of the game of Cucumbers on the teletext. I left the light off, sat down on the couch, reached for the remote control in the dark, and was suddenly startled: A lighter had suddenly flared up in the armchair opposite. "My God, you scared me," I said, somewhat reproachfully, to the late-night smoker. Despite my temporarily elevated adrenaline levels, I continued to avoid using the ceiling light and turned on the TV as my light source.
The person opposite me seemed sad, had short blond hair at first glance, and was obviously suffering from insomnia. "What are you doing here?" he asked me. I lit my cigarette and replied, "Smoking, and you?" "Ditto, my name is Sebastian, by the way." I introduced myself and asked what was driving him to the cigarette pack at three in the morning – that's how late it was by now. "Oh, I have this idiot in my room, stress at home, and... and... and everything." Suddenly, he was shaken by a fit of tears, a fit of tears out of nowhere. "The night of tears," went through my head. "Come over here," I urged him, pulling a tissue from my pocket. I was amazed that he did. I was even more amazed that he sat down on the sofa, immediately sought my company, and could only utter "Sorry" before completely sinking into tears.
One minute I was deep in the valley of grief, and now he seemed to need my help. I quickly ruffled his blond hair. "Hey, okay! Want to have another beer?" He nodded and sobbed. "Wait, I'll be right back."
I rushed to my emergency quarters, briefly explained the situation to Nicky, and he pressed two beers into my hand and asked for my understanding: "I'm going to go to sleep now. Please be so kind and keep your voice down when you come back later. Okay, brother?" "You can count on me, brother," I replied and returned to the TV room, where Sebastian seemed to have recovered somewhat.
"Everything okay?" I asked him, pressing the beer into Sebastian's hand. He nodded, opened the can, and drank silently. "If you want to talk, then talk," I offered. But he simply sought my company, finished his drink in no time, smoked another cigarette, then stood up, said thank you, and disappeared.
I also smoked again, calmly finished my beer, checked the results of the cucumber game, and then, feeling a bit groggy by now, staggered back to my room. Nicky was already asleep, and I also fell into my (or Lars'?) bed and immediately began my night's rest.
On Thursday, after class, we headed to the border town. Nobody was interested in the city itself, but they were interested in the other side of the river – SHOPPING!!! Apparently, several seminar participants were quite shivering when they returned home – damned smuggling! I had brought a carton of cigarettes with me, as per regulations. No more than allowed. It wasn't my fault that Nicky later handed me the carton he'd brought with him.
That evening, I was just walking across the parking lot to the main building for dinner when I noticed something on some of the volunteers' cars. I spotted license plates that looked familiar – from the neighboring districts of my hometown. I immediately tried to conduct a careful investigation into the owners. It would save me the train ride the next day. Near a vehicle that might have been in question, a young man was busy cleaning his car's windshield. I approached him out of the blue: "Tell me, who owns the Fiesta next to you? Do you have any idea?" "The gay guy in the room next to me... why do you want to know?" I had little desire to explain to the windshield cleaner why I wanted to speak to the driver. But the term "gay" alone made me explain: "I'm looking for someone who can transport me back to my hometown for less than the train." The cleaning maniac looked at me, a bit confused, while I waited for an answer. Now I finally wanted to know who might be looking for a male passenger. "Contact Sebastian from Room 17, but if you ride with him, make sure he doesn't turn down a quiet forest path with you." He laughed filthy, looked at his clean windshield, and disappeared.
My mind began to grind. Sebastian? Did the guy say Sebastian? With 200 volunteers, there was a high chance there would be another Sebastian running around. But Sebastian had told me he was having trouble with his roommate. That could very well fit the man with the clean window.
In any case, I was determined to save the ticket and made my way to room 17. I knocked. Someone called in, I opened the door... and of course, I saw the Sebastian who had revealed his tears to me the previous night. He gave me a rather venomous look, which didn't fit at all with his sad, yet beautiful eyes. "What do you want? Come on, rub salt in the wounds!" "Listen. I don't know what happened to you last night. And if you don't want to tell me, that's your business. I was happy to comfort you, even without words. And I damn well enjoyed it. Basti, what I want to know is: You're from my neighborhood, and I don't feel like taking the train home. Will you give me a ride?" He looked at me with wide eyes, nodded, and said quietly, "I owe you that. And thank you for being there tonight." We smiled at each other.
With the drive home a thing of the past, we ended the last evening in our "forest prison" with a boozy night. Everyone bought another round – Heike was the last one, probably because she was finally ready to call it a night.
Everyone who had participated in this internal civilian "final seminar" was either unable or unwilling to concentrate on the official end of the course on Friday morning. Neither Nicky nor I, who chatted for hours in a room after the "official" part. Micha and Lars slept off their hangover in a room that contained most of my luggage. Before we were struck by sleep on Friday morning, Nicky and I swore eternal friendship. A vow that was again tied to a kiss. Was there still something to be done? No, damn it, no betrayal of my brother's trust! That was the last thing on my mind before I fell asleep. Around 5 a.m. Three hours until I had to get up. My last thought before jumping into the arms of Morpheus: "Who the hell would get us out of bed for breakfast?"
We managed to crawl out of bed ourselves. The question of how remains to be seen. Dead tired, we completed our last breakfast and the final lesson. Afterwards, we had one last lunch together in the now actually cozy, narrow space of the pub, probably also because some had already fled. Rene, Micha, and Torsten were among them, although I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to them. I sat at a table with Matthias, Marcel, and Nicky. We said our goodbyes a little later. I wished Matze and Marci good luck and hugged Nicky goodbye in front of the rest of the group. "I hope to see each other again as soon as possible." "You can count on it, brother." He got on the bus with the others, which went to the train station. I was alone and looked around for Sebastian. He was already standing behind me and gave me a real fright when I turned around. "Let's go." A little later we left the forest idyll of the Schlöhner barracks, which really used to be one, as we found out at the reception at the end.
It was goodbye to community service school, and we sped home, including some risky overtaking maneuvers that nearly brought me to a heart attack. Much like the driver next to me. Sebastian was... indescribable. We talked, I enjoyed his manner, his sweet eyes. And at some point, he actually did what I'd been warned about: He turned onto a forest path and stopped. "Why did you hug me the night before last?" "You were sad. ... and I can't stand sweet, sad boys." He looked at me for a few seconds, then suddenly something clicked inside him and he started talking. "They all just picked on me in Schlöhne. I just told Steffen that I was happy for Matthias and Marcel and that I'd also like... to have a boyfriend. And then that asshole betrayed me like that. He literally told everyone he met. And he didn't leave a hair on my head. Neither he nor the others." I smiled at him: "You've picked the wrong person. And thanks to Steffen, I know that we have a little more in common than just our geographical location." He looked at me incredulously: "Are you serious?" "I'm completely serious."
Sebastian took a step toward me and put his arm on my shoulder. "You're so sweet. But can you love me too?" A good question. Just two days ago, Nicky was my true love, which he had now swapped for the role of brother. But Basti was undoubtedly cut from the same cloth. And I was about to fall in love for the second time in a very short space of time. Sparks flew in the middle of a lonely clearing—and again, so quickly. But I left his question unanswered for the time being.
Basti's Fiesta stopped in front of my door. "And now?" he asked me, anxious about saying goodbye. "Come up with me if you want." He wanted to and later sat in my room. "Can you imagine something becoming between us?" he asked me more urgently. I answered him. "No. I can't imagine it." ... I know something becoming between us. I love you." We sank into a never-ending kiss.
On Sunday, we all sat in the garden that belonged to Matze's father, which was located right by the water after a former open-pit mine was flooded. Nicky was the only victim... he had lost his girlfriend and hadn't found a "replacement" as quickly as I had. Although Basti was anything but a replacement. My great love... I had never believed I could fall in love in such a short time. And then it happened twice in two days. Stories that life writes. I had every reason to be happy. Like Matze and Marci next to me and the man in my arms. Basti....
One day later, I entered my station. Daily routine began again. But after a long day at work, great happiness was now waiting for me.
Basti and I, Marcel and Matthias, and Nicky will never forget Schlöhne. Life paths that crossed, never to part again.
Basti, Matze, Marci, Nicky… Thank you for being there! That's how it was in 1997, and that's how it still is this year.